


Wicked Lights (The Roman Walls Remix)

by chantefable



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Alternate Ending, Ancient Rome, Caves, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Celts, Friendship/Love, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Mithraism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, Storms, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:30:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which they take the road to Verulamium, Esca's PTSD finally catches up with him, road trips are therapeutic, life choices are made, and Marcus is oddly insightful because Mithras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Lights (The Roman Walls Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Roman Walls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/452058) by [Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis). 
  * In response to a prompt by [Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis) in the [remixmadness2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixmadness2015) collection. 



They were riding fast, Marcus' horse shoulder to shoulder with Esca's, with the rain rushing north even as they were headed south, and soon the shining veil of raindrops was behind them, with the echo of thunder growing as distant as the home of the Epidaii, the strange reversal of their fates, and the imprint of the lost Legion on this world. They had to be careful and cover their tracks, and Esca had an idea, inspiration bright like a flash of lightning – take the road to Verulamium. 

Marcus frowned at first, and seemed to wish to object, but then simply nodded without slowing the pace and followed him. Esca was the one who knew all the paths, and Marcus simply said, 'You decide,' so quiet it might have been the wind playing tricks with Esca's mind.

They took the Verulamium Road, and it was in Esca's heart that they might actually go to Verulamium. Why not? The whisper of the wind and the dense dust underfoot lead the way, and Esca could see the right direction with his inner eyes, with his soul-eyes: there it was, Verulamium, the wicked warm lights of the gods flashing across the sprawl of glens and fields, over the sensuous curves of hills and rivers. They would take him there.

Esca could lead them both there, with Marcus none the wiser. Marcus' Roman eyes were still blind to the wicked lights, after all. He would simply follow Esca; Esca would lead him on an invisible leash. Perhaps Esca could even tell him.

Why not? Esca sat up straighter, his fingers sliding deeper in his horse's tangled lush mane. He glanced over at Marcus, whose features seemed gaunt and tight in the twilight. Fatigue and lack of sleep had given his dark skin a pale hue. Indeed, they could simply head to Verulamium together. It was a proper Roman town that traded and paid taxes, a Roman town with a forum and a theatre. It would befit Marcus' station if, with the kind of journey they had had, he were to come there for his health, be tended to by a Roman medic, and dispatch a message for his Uncle. Yes, it was perfectly sound and reasonable. Why wouldn't they go to Verulamium, and stay there for a short while? Surely Marcus would agree to such a practical plan.

The evening chill settled, but the wicked warm lights floating by in Esca's side vision filled his heart with stinging heat and loosened the vice of worry clenched around his ribs, their effect welcome and heady like a cupful of honey-sweet mead. He felt his skin to be cool under the teasing glide of air, but his blood pumped hot as his thoughts raced faster than their horses ever could. 

They could go to Verulamium, where there would be the Catuvellauni, shrewd and pragmatic, living the Roman way and the way of the tribes. There, in Verulamium, Esca would find clans that did not die with their honour – he would find those who lived with a little less honour and a little more Roman coin. Those who had eventually let the Romans build their houses on the Catuvellauni land, and kept their daggers sheathed at their hips as they smiled – those who had kept their councils along with the Roman officials, and sold the Romans their goods and horses at price that was fair if one counted the share for each god and goddess of the tribes into it. 

The Catuvellauni were thriving, and only cared about Rome as one would care about a magic cow that one can continuously bleed for riches as long as one mutters meaningless ritual phrases, like 'Glory to the Emperor'. The Catuvellauni were alive, and Cunoval's clan was dead, so what did it matter that Esca had justly despised them as traitors. He was as bad as them now, or maybe even worse, for Esca, too, had become quiet and complacent, like a flame quelled by the Roman tide, and the only joy left in his life was having a Roman for a friend, whereas the Catuvellauni could rejoice in duplicity and corruption, with Roman purses ripe for the harvest. They could demand their due in bread and spectacle at the forum one day and dance the holy dance to their war-god the next, as long as they earnestly assured the magistrates that this was just homage to Mars in the local fashion.

Maybe the Brigantes war-god had abandoned Cunoval's clan because they were not as ruthless and cunning? Esca blinked, the wicked lights dancing before his eyes, as he had a fleeting vision of Camulos the war-god, wearing beautiful armour and carrying a painted shield, the carnyx conjuring a melody of blood thirst as the god mounted his steed to lead the Catuvellauni to battle. Hadn't their king Cassivellaunus defeated the Trinovantes and slain their king? And exhausted Julius Caesar when Mandubracius crawled on his belly to Romans and asked for their aid to avenge his father, exhausted him so that Julius Caesar hurried back for Rome as soon as he had negotiated a peace treaty with Cassivellaunus? (Oh, would that all those Romans had followed suit and let the tribes deal with their hate and squabbles alone.) Clearly, the Catuvellauni were favoured by the god of war, for it was their own conquering king Cunobelinus who had reigned over his tribes and the Trinovantes, and further south, and further east. Esca remembered Stephanos telling him that even that Roman chronicler, Suetonius, had called Cunobelinus the King of all Britain. _Rex Britannorum._ Esca understood, of course, what true meaning lay behind Stephanos imparting this wisdom: that Esca himself, nor his tribe, had never been anything special. At least, judging with the categories of value and might that Rome was so fond of, and so quickly filled the heads of its subjects with.

Either way, the Catuvellauni had waged war with triumph when their weapons had been swords and chariots, their enemies the neighbouring Trinovantes. And now, they triumphed still, when war had become survival, when their weapons turned to cunning, trickery, and tax evasion, when Camulos' painted shield was shrouded in incense smoke coming from the worship-places of Juno and Apollo: now, Roman masters were their enemies, and they were just as blind to the shield of Camulos hiding in the clouds and tree-branches as Marcus was blind to the wicked lights that allowed Esca to guide their horses true, and keep riding past nightfall.

He could go to Verulamium, and learn from the Catuvellauni. He could find a new home there. Why not? Esca was a free man now. Marcus had made him free. Emotions swelled in him anew, joy and humiliation. _Marcus_ had _made_ him free, given him a strange kind of Roman, incomplete freedom, the only one that was there for the taking. It had made Esca both happy and ashamed. It had made him realise that the freedom he was born with was truly lost forever.

But in Verulamium, Esca could learn to be free like the Catuvellauni. He would learn from them to wield this new freedom, like a youth learns to use a sword before he gets his first ink. He was a free man now, and he was entitled to his choice: he wished to learn to make use of this boon, for it to feel less like a hurt and more like an opportunity. Perhaps Marcus could – could he now? – deny Esca, but he would not. Of that, Esca was certain. If Esca wished it so, Marcus would let him stay in Verulamium and start a new life, while Marcus himself would go to Calleva, to Londinium – to restore his honour and dignity in the eyes of others, whose opinion mattered to Marcus more than Esca's or his own.

Marcus would _let_ him stay. Annoyance itched under Esca's skin, and he halted his horse as soon as he spotted a copse just off the road. What kind of freedom was this, with Esca's hand and feet bound both by heinous Roman laws and a twisted urge to seek Marcus' permission and approval, their friendship the only kind of love in Esca's life. A disgrace. Esca was half a man with this little love in him. It was necessary, it was decided: he had to go to Verulamium, and learn to love new people, care for them, care for new things. He had to be away from Marcus, to put more distance between them.

That, however, was for the future. Tonight, the distance between them would hardly be more than a hand span as they slept together under the canopy of tangled tree branches, their cloaks wrapped tight around their bodies to preserve warmth. Tonight, they would be close, but for all the devotion that had sunk its blood-stained teeth into Esca's flesh and kept dragging him to Marcus' side like a feral beast, against all reason, there was still a wall between them.

Marcus had stopped behind him, and had dismounted already. He was readying them a place for a night's rest without a word, but Esca could almost hear him thinking that tomorrow they might rest in a proper mansio, in a proper bed. No matter. Esca moved in silence, and shared his water with Marcus before closing his eyes to chase sleep like he had been chasing the wicked lights on the road earlier.

There was a wall between them for a good reason. It was in Esca's heart that he loved parts of Marcus very much, and cared for him as ardently as one cared for one's only friend in the whole world. But his loathing for other parts of Marcus, for the things he did and represented, for the force of Roman establishment that shone even through what he loved about Marcus dearly – that loathing did not go away, and would not for as long as Esca was of a sound mind, of that he was certain. For as long as Esca had a beating heart and eyes in his head, he would loathe, even though the loathing could not stifle the love. 

That was a good thing, of course, Esca thought to himself, lulled to sleep by Marcus' measured breaths. Love is what sustains the will to live, and the more love, the better, as everyone knows. If Esca hadn't found, against all odds, a friend to love in Marcus, he would not have lived through the bleak lot that befell him. But loving Marcus was not at all like loving Arthfael, tall and dimple-cheeked and strong as a bear, who had given Esca his first ink after the ritual hunt. It was not at all like loving Fedelmid, with a voice like a hundred bells and a shock of red hair just like her mother from across the western sea, the first shieldmaiden to snatch a kiss off Esca's lips during the days of fire-dances. It was not like loving Brac, Donat, and Creighton, with whom Esca had fought, laughed, and killed side-by-side.

No, it was a different kind of love, oddly fitting this Roman life measured by the Roman calendar, and not the moon-count of the wisewomen of the tribes. This love was needy and greedy and not kind to Esca himself at all. He had to seek new loves, so that this one would have less room and not consume his lonely self. Esca had to seek new friends, and perhaps he would find them among the Catuvellauni.

There could hardly be any walls between him and the Catuvellauni, after all.

They rode the next day, and Esca's resolve strengthened. The days they had spent in the fortress, surrounded by Roman soldiers, seemed to have leeched Esca's inner strength even as they helped his body recover, and the shadows lurking in Marcus' eyes suggested that his vitality was far from restored. The sun was rising, giving the vast valley around them a golden glimmer. Esca licked his dry lips, tasting fragrant morning dew and freshly-woken earth.

'It is in my heart that we may go to Verulamium,' he began, just like yesterday, when they had been approaching the road junction. Marcus was watching him, curious, almost smiling – Esca saw the exact moment he took a breath to voice an objection. 'It would do you good to rest there, a proper rest, if even for a few days. It would be a good thing to send a message to your Uncle, and to the Legate.' Esca shifted and petted his horse: it could obviously sense his repressed agitation and was becoming anxious as well. 'Is it not your duty to come back alive and whole, and well enough to tell the tale?' Esca hurried to add. 'I can tell that your leg bothers you, and it saddens me to see it.' It was true. Esca did not enjoy the sight of Marcus' suffering, or even the mildest discomfort.

He should have prepared his words better, Esca thought, made them fall from his lips surely and smoothly so that Marcus would not wish to say no. But even this ineloquent appeal seemed to have moved Marcus, who guided his horse even closer and reached over to clasp Esca's hand, fixing his earnest, liquid gaze upon Esca. 

'I am not unwell, truly. But what you say has merit, and would be prudent to do.' Marcus hunched a little, still awkwardly holding Esca's hand as they rode. 'I can tell that you are tired as well, and that your heart is in some pain. It saddens me.' Esca did not speak, and Marcus attempted a shy half-smile. 'We shall go to Verulamium if you so wish. It would please me to do so.'

'It is only that this is prudent, like you said,' replied Esca, tugging his fingers free from Marcus' hold. He gave Marcus a reassuring grin, and was rewarded by one in return; Marcus' posture eased, and he looked relieved, if thoughtful. But any other concerns or ideas Marcus might have had were not voiced as they kept on riding.

The wicked lights seemed hotter and brighter today, and Esca's heart was full and eager. Marcus barely questioned him when they changed their path, sometimes sticking to the road, sometimes opting for shortcuts through the groves and valleys, and sometimes looping around through woods and steep hills. It was the safe road, the right path – what could be safer than the call of the god-lights that herded them like long-tamed wolf-kin herd sheep? Esca followed them with his inner sight, and kept thinking about what would happen in Verulamium.

They would have to stay at the mansio, of course. Go to the baths, send for the medic to check on Marcus' leg – his entire body. Perhaps Marcus would insist the medic check on Esca, too. A mad giggle rose up in Esca's chest, the kind that came over a man when there had been too much mead and drumbeat on the third night of the fire-dances. Perhaps the good Roman medic would tell him what was wrong with Esca's head that he would not wish to live by the side of his former dominus forever, and fantasised about plotting mayhem by stealth among the Catuvellauni, and followed some imaginary barbarian lights for days on end. Esca caught Marcus' worried glance and shook his head, swallowing back his nervous laughter and his doubts. He could see the wicked lights clearly, showing Esca the way to Verulamium.

What lay ahead when he was there, however, was still for him to decide.

Time blurred as they rode on, searched for food and drink, even talked to some people. Esca's attention was focussed inwards, and Marcus, sensing his mood, did not bother him. This stirred an answering tenderness in Esca, while at the same time making anger and disgruntlement spike through his heart. He wished to leave Marcus. More than anything, with a stubborn urgency, he wished to leave him as soon as they were at Verulamium, to go off to collect a bath-house token and run away, never to return. He was a free man, who could dare to stop him! He would live like one of the Catuvellauni and learn a trade, or, if it was too late for that, simply make use of the skills he had – Esca could carve wood a little, had learned as a boy, and if his wares turned out to be mediocre, well, wasn't that more than good enough for the Romans, eh? He could buy and sell horses again. He could have a good life. Esca was certain he would love horses – he would learn to love wood-carving, sure, but he would definitely love horses more – and he would surely find people to love. There would be friends to be found among the traders, among the purchasers; he would walk the streets of Verulamium as a free man, fetching a basket full of food or getting himself a few pieces of crockery, and day by day, his heart would be filled with love. He would not depend on Marcus so much.

(Perhaps he could visit Marcus one day. Afterwards. If Marcus stayed in Britain. Perhaps.)

He needed a fresh start more than he needed food, or drink, or sleep. Now, with their quest for the Eagle over, with the final stretch of their journey pulling Esca back into the orbit of Rome, of Calleva, of the memories of the arena and the habits of slavery ingrained too deeply to think of those without revulsion (even though he had known joy in them, and Marcus, and a fragile kind of kindness, and Cottia, fiery and carefree like Fedelmid had been once), Esca found that he did not wish to come back. No one could leave and find things unchanged, no one could come back to the past. Esca was not to be a prince again, and neither was he to be a slave; but was he to be happy in Calleva? 

What fool would come back to the place that had given him grief and expect to forge happiness there?

Esca had deserved his freedom. He had literally served and made himself worthy of it in the eyes of his Roman master, and now, he was free. Free like a former slave of Rome could be free – neither like a former slave of Brigantes, nor like Cunoval's son, but _free_ , and that was the kind of freedom he intended to learn to enjoy to the fullest, and make himself whole and strong again.

He was not whole and strong now, he knew, dogging Marcus' steps like a half-wild animal, keen on his fondness because he had none. He could not live like this, Esca felt; the knowledge echoed in his aching bones and tense muscles. He could not be Marcus' shadow and rejoice in nothing but this for the rest of his days. It was pitiful. Esca refused.

In the meantime, the clouds wrapped up the setting sun and hid it out of sight, and then came the rain, and thunder, and lightning. Drenched, Esca and Marcus raced across the valley towards the riverbank and searched for shelter for the night. Rocks rolled under the horses' hooves, and Esca spied a trembling wicked light out of the corner of his eye. He motioned for Marcus to follow him, and heard not his reply over the sound of thunder.

Esca closed his eyes for a moment, pulling tight on the reins of his frightened horse and murmuring soothing nonsense for its benefit. Behind his eyelids, the wicked light burned still, and when Esca hurried in that direction, sightless but certain, a dozen steps later he felt the rain no more. He opened his eyes and saw that they were in a small cave. Marcus was already shaking water off his cloak.

Smiling and oddly at peace, Esca began fastening the horses and pulling off the saddlebags. 

'What luck you have, Esca,' said Marcus as he devoted himself to the futile task of making a fire out of the damp twigs scattered across the ground. 'To find such a wonderful shelter as this excellent cave. It was in my mind that we were going to spend the night in the mud-bank, with the cold water rising up to our chins, and in the storm, too.'

'It is no luck. The light led me here,' Esca answered easily, and then felt too exposed. 'Knowledge of my people,' he said, shrugging it off and hoping that Marcus hadn't caught the moment he had left himself cracked open and vulnerable – or that, if Marcus had seen it, he would say nothing.

Marcus just kept grinning, and nodded as if it were perfectly natural. 'Guidance of the gods,' he said, and fire sparked under his hands, leaving Esca agape. 'We can still go sleep in the river if such luxury is beneath you,' Marcus teased, spreading his cloak on the ground.

'I will stoop to your level, Roman,' Esca said loftily, and neither of them knew if Esca was joking, but both of them laughed.

They had a handful of berries and cheese each, and went to sleep in each other's arms to ward off the chill. Esca remembered sleeping just like that with Brac and Creighton – some other storm, some other journey, half-forgotten and maybe half a dream. Esca could not tell if his eyes prickled from the wisps of smoke or unshed tears, but Marcus held him tight and said nothing, a warm, settling weight against his side and front. Esca slept restlessly, waking up in fits and starts and falling back asleep before he could begin to think about Marcus' injured leg thrown protectively over his own, the rough pads of Marcus' fingers sliding across Esca's nose and cheekbones, or the prayer to Mithras that Marcus softly murmured against Esca's collar bone. 

He was very warm.

He dreamt about the road ahead. They were in the lands of the Catuvellauni now. They had spoken to a woman today, the one who had sold them cheese, and Esca could understand her tongue just fine. Esca dreamt about the road, and them going to Verulamium, the great city of the Catuvellauni tribes. 

And further east, towards Camulodunum, there would be the Trinovantes. Esca could go further east.

It was a good dream. Esca was very warm.

The storm was over by morning, with nothing but a light mizzle to send them off as they rode to Verulamium. Marcus seemed to be in an incredibly good mood, and Esca, too, felt more settled, calmly following the steady, strong radiance of the wicked lights. He kept trying to recall his dream, the one that had been torn and halting and yet had left him feeling so warm and cherished and wanted. He was dreaming of the Trinovantes, that much Esca remembered.

That was strange, wasn't it? One would think that the Trinovantes were _worse_ than the Catuvellauni. They had been the ones to call for the Romans. Twice. But then again, maybe Camulos the war-god favoured them, too, for knowing how to use their enemy's enemy? There were worthy people among them, worthy fighters – like Addedomarus, who had defeated Tasciovanus of the Catuvellauni, ending his rule over the two kingdoms. Would that another hero like that could rise out of the midst of the Trinovantes and avenge the wrongs. Esca knew that Cunobelinum, the _Rex Britannorum_ that Romans liked to write about, had conquered the Trinovantes' jewel, the city of Camulodunum, and expelled their king Dubnovellaunus, making Camulodunum the new capital of the Catuvellauni. Wouldn't it be beautiful and just if the Trinovantes were to rise, and conquer Verulamium now? Take it away from the Catuvellauni _and_ from the Romans, and chase Rome away from their lands. A new Addedomarus, ending the rule of Rome over two kingdoms again, of the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni. Oh, Esca would dearly wish to count his spear among such a man's spears. He would yearn to be his shieldbrother. He would long to prove himself worthy of such a man's friendship. He knew his love for such a man would be great indeed.

Perhaps that was where Esca's own road led. To Verulamium, and then further east, to live among the Trinovantes. To find new friends, new shieldbrothers and shieldmaidens, new spears, new horses, and fill his heart with new love. That, Esca could see. He smiled, relishing the gentle touch of the sun of his face, a glide of warmth across his nose and cheekbones. He would be strong then, keen and capable. He would live with purpose.

'You are going to stay at Verulamium, aren't you,' Marcus said suddenly, and Esca jumped in his seat, startling the horse. He looked over at Marcus who was peering into the distance, dark locks curling over his forehead.

'You have been thinking about it. I did not understand it at first, but I am certain of it now.' Marcus' voice broke into a slightly petulant lilt towards the end, and he blushed and bit his lip. 'Forgive me. I am deeply sorry that you wish to part ways, and my heart aches to think that – ' Marcus shook his head. 'I only mean to say that it will sadden me greatly to be apart from you, but nothing would sadden me more than you being unhappy. I know that what is your heart's desire is mine also, and if you wish to live in a different place, then that is what I wish, too. And if you wish to live away from me – '

Marcus took a gasping breath, and Esca could not look away from him, from the way Marcus' fingers twisted in the reins and his eyes were fixed on the sun above the horizon.

'I only hope that you will give me the honour of being able to visit you sometimes, or will come to visit me. But even if that cannot be done, I will still love you most dearly for as long as I live. And nothing that the fates could bring us, in your life or in mine, will diminish that feeling, nor my gratitude and loyalty for you. And nothing will erase my memory of your kindness, and of the kind of man you have been to me.'

Marcus fell silent. Esca wished to stop the horses, and at the same time dreaded the stillness. Instead, they kept a smooth, steady pace, just like the sun kept rolling in the skies and time itself kept slipping away. Life was going forward, stepping from the present into the future.

'It is only that I wish to be more than the kind of man I have been to you,' Esca said at last, willing Marcus to understand and hoping that, through some miraculous insight, he already did. 'I wish to be… the kind of man I _can_ be. I wish to be more, for my own sake and – just because.' Esca was watching Marcus, the familiar intensity of him, and struggled to say what he could, what was not too raw and unformed within him. 'It was in my heart to speak to you at Verulamium, and tell you of it.' 

In that moment, Esca knew it to be true – of course he would not have slipped away without a word, no matter how much an aching, rebellious part of him wished for it. He would not have left like a thief in the night, as if he had to steal his freedom: he would not have cheapened his choice so.

'How did you know what was in my heart, Marcus?'

Marcus smiled at him then, a close-lipped, dear smile, his eyes darting back to the sun. 

'Guidance of the gods,' he said jokingly, echoing their conversation from the night before, but his eyes were earnest and warm.

In that moment, Esca thought that it was fine that he could not tell Marcus about all that plagued him, that he could not settle all his grievances with Marcus, and that it hurt him viscerally to leave his friend even as that thought alone sustained his hope for the days to come. Perhaps one day he would be able to, or one day it would not matter that these things remained untold for they had been spoken between their souls. 

He reached to clasp Marcus' shoulder fondly, and for the rest of the journey to Verulamium, right until the manager of the mansio gave them an iron key and waved down the corridor so they could find their small, dim room, he listened to Marcus' voice tentatively musing about the virtues of Verulamium, and the merits of the life one might find there, adding what was on his own mind here and there. The wicked lights kept burning, rippling and scattering ahead like affectionate promises, and Esca knew in his heart that although some walls would always remain between them, others were gone forever.

**Author's Note:**

> ...and then we go in Alternate History territory where Esca worked towards the Trinovantes rebellion, kindled the fire of revolution in the provinces, and eventually lived happily in a polyamorous marriage with Marcus and Cottia.
> 
> (Finally. Marcus cannot believe how many fortuitous occassions for a passionate union have been wasted in the course of this story, either. He knows all about tropes, he has read the poets.)


End file.
